Pink Triathlete

14th June 2021

Arriving at Dover harbour we observed the other teams assembling at the car park: their faces were serious, maybe anxious? We, on the other hand, bustled out the car, beaming and excited to start. We met with our other teammates and walked down the marina walkway to our boat, the Viking Princess II.
The Viking Princess is a catamaran; battleship grey and lit up with three interrogating beacons. Owned and piloted by two brothers, Reg and Ray, they were the perfect picture of seafarers (gold hoop earrings, sea dog tan and broad smiles). We settled in by spreading our stuff everywhere and positioned our team mascot, Action man (the greatest hero of them all) against the hand sanitizer). Leaving Dover marina the red and white lights clamoured together: we passed the gigantic Disney cruise ship and an empty border petrol boat till ahead all we could see was the velvet black of sky and sea and no definition of either.
We prepped our watches (almost every one a forerunner 935), by attaching them to the handrail. Channel swim association regulations state you cannot wear a watch, but we could record it on the boat.
And then the boat slowed, Sarah Hyatt, our first and strongest swimmer was to start! She boarded the RIB and disappeared into the night. A beacon from the ship blared out in the direction they headed and in a faded circle we could see what looked like parchment but was really the cliff-face of Samphire Hoe beach. It felt like the film The Truman show when the hero reaches the end of the world and its a scenic painting from a set. A horn blared to start at 1.43am and that’s it: somewhere in front of us Sarah had climbed onto the beach and now swam back towards us. After a few minutes we saw her green safety lights flashing on the back of her goggles and swimsuit; the RIB and crew member at her side with a torch. She reached the Viking Princess and smiled as we all hung over the gunwhale to observe her for the next hour. The water out of samphire hoe was flecked with small patches of scum, the odd small jellyfish and even once we spotted a tiny crab. Sarah swam past all these things unperturbed.
The horizon started to bleed like faded ink: a bruise spreading off our port stern till it reached Dover. Ahead was just darkness and our little floating Christmas tree.

And then the hour was up and it was Emma France’s turn. The most experienced member of our team, this was her 16th relay crossing in her goal of achieving a world record. She jumped into the water behind Sarah and continued on unfazed by the cold and dark waters. Sarah swam astern and was hoisted by the divers lift to great whoops and celebration by the team. One hour done!

After Emma came ‘Claw hand’ Stuart Holbrook. The water at first seemed to take him off guard: we had all be training to acclimatise to cold water since March, but none of us had just jumped into 14° water and started swimming. He recovered quickly and started to swim till he pulled his hand out the water suddenly: perhaps he hit a jellyfish? Later we would find out he had smacked a fish in the face and recoiled! And Sarah had managed to capture them on her phone, fish and Stu swimming alongside together.

All around us we saw the other Channel swim vessels with other relay teams of varying sizes attempting the same as us. Some drew near to us, others faded into the horizon. Pathfinder, Optimist, and Masterpiece as well as other boats smaller and less fancy than our own (well, we are on a Princess after all).

Then it was my turn. I was nervous about jumping in the cold. I find it hard enough getting in the pool at Bracknell quickly, let alone jumping into a 14° ice plunge with dodgy goggles on. I sat in the gangway. The observer told me I had to wait for Claw hand Stu to overtake me before I jumped in so as not to appear we had gained any advantage. I scooted off the boat, holding my goggles to my face, and the iciness enrobed me as I plunged down deep. My skin felt like tiny fingers were pinching it all over. I surfaced and took a couple of breaths before starting to swim. It was really cold, but more painful on my skin than breathtaking. I was so grateful for my training; for swimming in the lake when it was 8° and knowing how it would feel.
I became aware of a ship beside me, the Masterpiece, we’d overtaken another team! It’s not a race but it was wonderful to know they were close.
I found it hard to see the boat through my goggles, I could just about see Stuart Handley, our team captain and chief Channunicorn, keeping watch over me. I saw faces come and go over the ship’s lights- I poked my tongue out a couple of times.
Beneath me I saw the odd tiny jellyfish and glittering particles whizz by. I felt fast. The boat overtook me and then I raced from stern to bow to overtake it. The sky astern punched out the fiery ball of sun on the horizon and the whole sea glowed orange and pink. I felt my back warm and the sky lighten. The sun on my face was glorious: it felt like progress. We were in the shipping lane.
And then soon I saw Stuart showing me five fingers of the flashing glove to signal my five minute warning. I drew nearer to the boat as the gangway opened and he jumped in feet first behind me. I swam astern and grabbed the diver’s lift which, with a mechanical screech, lifted me to my team who were all so delighted. I was ecstatic: I’d swam just shy of 3kms in the hour, 15minutes faster than last week in the lake.
It was cold getting out, despite the sun being fully up. I didn’t shiver but was greatful to be in my new onesie and ugg boots!
Stuart punched his way through the hour. He had swam 17hours into a solo channel crossing last year only to be foiled by tides, which goes to show how many variables are at play here. He’s a a machine: the perfect team captain to encourage us and keep us all grounded. He kept watch over us during our stints and I hoped we would make it to France for him this time.
On deck the time passed quickly in anticipation of the next swim. We watched as huge tanker ships passed in the distance. The crew members fished off the port bow, catching dart fish and mackerel with a line.

Next up was Fiona Marshall. She had worked the hardest to get to here. Her progress was astounding in acclimatising to cold water since March. She went from being unable to move and in serious danger to now entering the water like a pro and exiting with a smile, able to dress without any issues. She’s one of the toughest cookies I know and proudly my tri club mentor.

And then we started all over again but the stakes got higher! Each swim was so variable due to tides. My second swim felt more enjoyable. The water felt Mediterranean turquoise, as clear as crystal! I could see each glittering plankton in front of me. The second swim felt longer but I kept singing Barbara Streisand’s ‘A piece of sky’ from Yentl to myself for the whole hour. I counted how many times I overtook the boat till I got to 27 and gave up. I thought I saw a fish in the corner of my goggles but became unsure whether it was an eyelash or shadow. Light filtered through the water surface below me and dappled around my hands like straight wisps of smoke. I glided and pushed my hands back with joy. The salt burned my tongue slightly and I tried to close my mouth again. And then the warning hand from Stuart came and it was time to get out. This time the deck was searing hot under my feet and I was able to stay in my towel for a while basking in the sun. We were nearly done surely?
But then there were muttering of uncertainly as everyone looked port.
There was the bouy that would define our fate. A tall pillar of grey that signalled if we would make the tide to draw us back into France. If we missed it we wouldn’t make it: the same as Stuart the year before. And he was swimming now, totally aware and giving it all so we could make it! I’d managed almost 6km in my swim but the tide was now turning and Stuart was having to do his best to fight it.
It was impossible and maddening to know if we were level with the bouy or not! So we stared and hoped till the bouy faded and our focus drew to the rolling hills of France. The lighthouse stood out, the red roofs of the french village contrasted against our familiar striking white cliffs of Albion. To the right of the Cape sat the restaurant that would bring whoever lands a glass of champagne, and to the right of that a barrier of rocks that the lander would have to scramble onto if we reached that point. There were two beaches of sand, full of swimmers. The other swimming vessels headed towards there and it looked as if we were too.

Sarah’s third turn now, would she get us there?

I dozed to be roused by the worst thing I can think of: Porpoises astern. I immediately sprang ready to defend my friends against the villains. Their shiny grey backs jumped out the wake of our vessel, flashing like a spark of a katana. But they disappeared soon enough. Would they attack us? Who knew. But I’d seen the skipper with a knife so if worst came to worst we could surely fight back.

And then the juddering sounds of a helicopter broke our attention and above us the French police or coastguard circled directly over us. We saw the pilot and he saw us, so near to shore. He gave an encouraging bleep of his siren and flew away.
But the shore still wasn’t near enough and Emma would now take over. Would she make it? She powered through just as Sarah had. The pilot complemented Sarah’s strength as because of her we had cut our swim by two hours.
We pelted Emma with blueberries to speed her on.
It looked like it would be close. Claw hand Stu boarded the RIB ready to take over as her one hour expired, no matter how near to the beach it was. We all watched on as a few french beach goers realised what was happening and came closer.
And then she made it with 2 minutes to spare! The ships horn signalling the end of the swim blared out and we all cheered on the bow.
The RIB returned and salty water sprayed over the air as we all high-fived each other with joy. We made it in 13hours 58minutes and we were ecstatic. There were tears in every eye as we realised what we’d done. Stuart finally made it to France! We just experienced something that very few people ever will (fewer than those who’ve climbed Everest). And we made it all in once piece too, which hasn’t been the case in the last few days for other teams either. Despite only having since March to acclimatise (and sea swam 3 times before for me), we did it.
The boat packed up the RIB, hoisted the drag parachute (which helps slow the boat down and keep direction) and we bombed it back to England. We celebrated with Moët in pepper pig mugs, chatting and relishing the wind and spray in our hair.
The Optimist appeared to our port side and we all cheered them as they cheered back. It felt wonderful and special to be part of something so niche.
In Dover we were greeted to some of the Dover training swimmers who were so happy for us and wanted to congratulate us personally.
The white cliffs rose above us as we said goodbye to everyone. An experience we will never forget.
How we swam the channel, as only a few who have been privileged have done,
and perhaps ever will.